


It's A Love Story

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Coda, Cuddles, Dean and Sam are Romeo and Juliet, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmates, Spoilers, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 08:40:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6416608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brother cuddles, confessions, and sweet banter after the boys get back to the bunker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Love Story

**Author's Note:**

> So that episode was amazing if not mildly traumatizing. This is me writing it out because otherwise who knows what could happen.
> 
> Title shamelessly taken from Taylor Swift's Love Story because ha ha ha.

Sam talks and walks a big game but truth is he’s wiped. Dean reads it in his face as he settles into the passenger seat of the Impala. He’s still laughing, still Sam - Dean’s incredible, resilient, and _thank everything_ unstoppable little brother - and the kid wasn’t just shot. He was shot, strangled, left for dead, and _still_ he kicks ass and hauls his own out of the woods and to the clinic to save his big brother’s. Dean can’t really wrap his head around the events of the last 24 hours, isn’t keen to try now that Sam’s next to him, alive and breathing, which is all that matters. So instead, he keeps his foot heavy on the drive home, so beyond ready to tuck Sam into bed and keep a grateful watch on him as he recovers.

Sam’s asleep by the time Dean pulls into the garage. Dean would be lying if he said he wasn’t exhausted, too. His ribs ache, his head is a bit woozy, and his stomach has not felt right since he swallowed all those pills. He barely thinks of any of it; instead, he climbs out of the Impala quietly to the sound of Sam waking when the engine dies. Sam shifts and snuffles in the seat, hisses with heavy lidded eyes when his movements must pull at his stitches, and Dean is opening his door and reaching in to help him out. He feels a familiar pang in his chest as he slips his hands around his brother’s waist to support him, remembers when Sam was small enough Dean could scoop him out of the back seat and carry him inside whatever motel-of-the-week and he’d only wake enough to fist his hand into the back of Dean’s shirt and nuzzle in against his chest. Now, Sam’s weight is mostly on Dean even though he’s on his own two feet, his legs moving in a near-charade as Dean guides him to his room. 

He looks barely conscious as Dean undresses him, sitting up on the edge of his bed but moving like a doll under Dean’s hands so that he’s in just his t-shirt and boxers by the time Dean is easing him back and folding him under the covers. He makes soft sounds as Dean moves him and Dean cherishes each one even as he realizes they’re taking him apart. All the quiet has left his mind on a loop, everything on a painful replay and now that they’re out of the woods Dean can’t help but feel it all, really _feel_ it the way he hadn’t let himself yet, and the relief settling in is almost more than he can handle. 

Quickly, he brushes the strands of hair off of Sam’s face and tucks them behind his ears. He leans down to press a brief kiss to Sam’s forehead, his lips dry and trembling, before he stands, scrubs a hand down his face, and makes for the door. He’s about to pull it closed behind him when Sam speaks.

“Dean,” he says, a soft whine. Dean swallows hard and pokes his head back in Sam’s room. His brother’s eyes are still closed.

“Yeah, Sammy?” Dean’s voice is quiet too, but rough with everything he’s trying to beat back behind those patented Winchester walls, the ones that let him act and think even when it’s the last thing he wants to do, like leaving Sam bloody and alone on the floor of the cabin.

“C’mere.” Sam mumbles. Between the sleep and the painkillers Dean isn’t even sure how coherent he is, can’t help but chuckle a little and shake his head.  
“No way, kiddo. Not gonna risk those stitches, arrite? Go to sleep, Sam.” He hears his dad-voice even as he says it, the same one he used yesterday when he had to dig the bullet out of Sam’s stomach, the one he uses to soothe his brother and also to convince himself. 

Sam is silent a moment and Dean takes a deep breath, steels himself to turn around and leave again, but Sam is having none of it.

“Need you to sleep. Please, Dean? I got shot ‘n saved your ass. Can’t say no to me, jerk.”

Dean barks out a startled laugh, at once disbelieving and completely unsurprised. Sam will be asleep with or without him in minutes, Dean knows, between the drugs and exhaustion, but it warms his heart fiercely to hear Sam say it anyway, no matter how ridiculous or untrue. Sam’s eyes stay closed but he shuffles back to make space for his brother like it’s a foregone conclusion that Dean will give in. Which of course, it is.

Dean gives an audible sigh, exaggerating his feigned annoyance, and as he starts to kick off his shoes and peel out of his shirt, his eyes still on his brother, he sees Sam’s lips twitch into a tiny, victorious smile. Dean is still on the edge, his chest still tight and his eyes glistening, but Sam’s making him smile and giving him what he needs, what he wasn’t going to let himself have. He slides into the bed behind his brother, one arm trapped between them and the other snaking around Sam’s waist, his fingertips ghosting the edge of the bandage on Sam’s stomach before settling higher, palm open on his heart. Sam hums as Dean stops shifting, their legs tangled together like their soul, his lips brushing the back of Sam’s neck, tilting his chin up to nose into Sam’s hair and breathe him in, the reassuring scent such a comfort that his exhale is shaky and a little wet. He fights the impulse to grip his brother, dig his fingers in and squeeze, just to hold on to what he almost lost.

Sam knows. Of course he does. It’s why he dragged Dean in here with him even though he’s only just clinging to wakefulness, and why his arm rests over Dean’s and threads their hands together. He doesn’t say anything while Dean cries quietly behind him. 

By the time Dean’s eyes are dry and he’s let it all go, Dean is sure Sam is asleep in his arms. He knows he never has to say so but he’s thankful for the way Sam always gives him what he needs and lets him deal with stuff in his own way. He squeezes Sam’s fingers lightly where they’re woven with his and takes in an easier breath. He lets his exhaustion make his burning eyes heavy, his weight sinking into the mattress and the solace of Sam’s skin against his, the heat of his brother’s body.

Sam mumbles something unintelligible and Dean’s not sure if he’s awake or dreaming. He hums like he’s asking a question, the vibration of it getting absorbed into Sam’s neck where Dean’s lips are resting.

“You’re always gonna be my Romeo now.” Sam says it again, just above a whisper, and even though he can hear the playful tease in Sam’s voice, Dean tenses.

“What?” He manages to croak out a moment later when Sam hasn’t spoken again.

“You. My Romeo.” Sam says it again even though they both know Dean heard him, that that wasn’t the question. Dean’s heartbeat kicks up a notch in his chest and he stays tense, not sure what to say. Since they both made it out okay, no deals required, he’d figured Sam didn’t need to know just how desperate his death had made him. 

“Michelle told me, Dean.” Sam’s voice is gentle as he answers Dean’s unasked question. Silence fills the non-existent space between them because Dean still doesn’t know what to say or what Sam wants from him. He’s not sorry. He can’t - won’t - be sorry and he doesn’t want a lecture right now, doesn’t want to argue. Dean has Sam back, that shit is done with, and as far as he’s concerned that’s all there is to it. 

“Then why’d you ask? Why’d you ask what I did if you knew?” Of all the things rushing in his head that’s what Dean settles on. He’s not sure where Sam is going with this.

“Dunno,” he finally answers, after long enough that Dean wondered if he’d drifted off. When he continues, his words are long and slur together a little and Dean just wants him to sleep already. “Wanted to see if you’d tell me yourself. Trying to figure out how shaken up you were, how bad it was, I dunno.” 

Dean resists the urge to scoff at that, his brother diagnosing him. He fidgets, uncomfortable with the conversation, anxious, and Sam reads him clearly even now, when he can hardly string words together for a real sentence.

“‘M not mad, Dean. Don’t blame you. Want you to know… I woulda done the same.”

Dean’s chest tightens again. His breath catches at that and dammit he’s already cried his heart out once tonight. Enough is enough. 

“Yeah, well,” he starts after clearing his throat. “That makes you Juliet, bitch.”

Sam snorts a laugh and presses back against his brother, his hand tightening on Dean’s.

“Yeah, I guess it does.” Sam sounds happy when he says it even through the sleepy haze, and Dean relaxes into the sound, feels his brother’s smile in his voice and the softness of his body. He smiles, too, despite everything they’ve just been through, and finally they fall asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks, as always, for reading. Comments and kudos are love ♥


End file.
